In a second he was lying on his face, tight squeezed between the hay and the roof of the arch.

Beside him lay a man whose features his eyes, unaccustomed to the gloom, could not discern.

But the man knew him and whispered his name.
"You know me ?" Tignonville muttered in astonishment.
"I marked you, M.de Tignonville, at the preaching last Sunday," the stranger answered placidly.
"You were there ?" "I preached." "Then you are M.la Tribe!" "I am," the clergyman answered quietly.

"They seized me on my threshold, but I left my cloak in their hands and fled.

One tore my stocking with his point, another my doublet, but not a hair of my head was injured.
They hunted me to the end of the next street, but I lived and still live, and shall live to lift up my voice against this wicked city." The sympathy between the Huguenot by faith and the Huguenot by politics was imperfect.